


How to Have Fun For Dummies

by AlleiraDayne



Series: Instead of Going to Bed DAI Verse [21]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol, Awkward Cullen, Awkward Flirting, Cullen Fluff, Developing Relationship, F/M, Flirting, Fluff, Hangover, Healing, Magic, Pre-Relationship, Sweet Cullen Rutherford
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-08
Updated: 2017-09-08
Packaged: 2018-12-25 04:39:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12028293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlleiraDayne/pseuds/AlleiraDayne
Summary: Cullen gets roped into a few drinks with his fellow advisers, Cassandra, and Amallia at the tavern in Haven.





	How to Have Fun For Dummies

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/138010791@N02/36279829053/in/datetaken-public/)

“Commander!” a voice sang above the crowd. “Share a pint with us?”

Cullen scanned the tiny tavern to find Leliana waving to him, her table accompanied by Josephine and Cassandra. Not wanting to intrude on their free time, Cullen approached their table with a readied excuse for his quick departure.

“Lady Nightingale, I apologize, I must attend to the–”

“Nonsense,” Cassandra interrupted. “The bloody trebuchets won’t disappear overnight. Sit.”

She wasn’t wrong. And they had earned a moment’s respite, had they not? Lady Trevelyan had stopped the breach from growing, and at the very least, the rift was stable.

 _For now_.

Against his better judgment, Cullen sat beside Cassandra and asked a serving girl for a tankard of ale. Cassandra asked for a second as she wrapped an arm around his shoulder for a gentle embrace.

“Thank you, Cullen,” she started. “We thought you could use the break.”

A break. How glorious a gift, but he had far too much work ahead of him. With the constant stream of refugees, soldiers, and mages flowing into Haven, his night had no end in sight. Beds, shelter, food, clothing, his mental checklist remained incomplete and ever growing. Precious few people wore more than singed rags, their livelihoods decimated by the war ravaging the Hinterlands. And contemplating the war-torn region reminded him of yet another task on his list.

“Lady Montilyet,” he started, and the woman across from him brightened at the sound of her name. “Do you have a contact willing to travel to the Hinterlands? We need an Inquisition official to assist in wresting back control of the area. And protect the local common folk.”

“Commander,” Josephine began, “do you have any hobbies? What else do you do? Besides work.”

 Maker, not again. “I do,” he stated with a sardonic smile.

“Training doesn’t count,” Cassandra jested. “For instance, I enjoy reading.”

“As do I,” he added as their ale arrived. Taking a sip, he relished the flavor a moment before continuing. “I consider myself well read.”

Josephine’s laughter flitted through the tavern, a bright song that drew several eyes. “Alright, Ser Rutherford, name a fictional character.”

With three sets of eyes boring into him, Cullen opened his mouth to answer, but he balked as the door to the tavern swung wide in a gust of crisp mountain air. The Herald of Andraste crossed the threshold, wind swirling in her purple waves and fierce blue eyes searching the crowd. Thought fled, his reply to their teasing lost as his lips parted in a slight gape.

Following his blank stare, the three women turned to find the source of his distraction. Time stretched, slowing as Leliana stood and waved, her lilting call gaining the Herald’s attention with ease. A bright smile spread across her lips, and in the blink of an eye, Amallia Trevelyan joined their table.

Seated beside Josephine and across from him, a drink filled the Herald’s hands without her asking. From it she drew a long pull, swallowing several times before the tankard thumped on the table. Licking her lips clean of the heady foam, her eyes found his, wide and staring as if seeing him for the first time.

“Commander,” she stated, “it’s wonderful to see you taking a break. I believe tonight is the first I’ve seen you in a casual setting.”

Cassandra’s heavy boot connected with his beneath the table, shocking his senses into motion. “I… ah, yes, Herald. Since the enclave, I’ve slept little and kept busy.”

Maker’s breath, what had he said? He wished to take it back, whatever it was, to see her smile again, for she frowned a sympathetic pout with a furrowed brow. “I suppose that’s my fault.”

“Lady Trevelyan, no, that’s not what the Commander meant,” Cassandra covered for him. “We do not blame you in the least for what happened at the conclave. Not any longer, at least.”

Leliana leaned in besides Josephine, a small smile on her lips. “We’re happy to have you here with us, Amallia,” she started, eyes darting to his. “Smitten, even.”

Coughing into his ale, Cullen spluttered, stunned by Leliana’s perception, though he supposed he shouldn't be. Standing, he muttered an excuse to find an exit. “I’m sorry, ladies, I should attend—”

“Stay?”

Half out of his seat, Cullen froze, doubting his ears. Searching for a hint of reality, he looked to her to find her fiery blue eyes locked on his, piercing through to his soul. And there, buried so deep, lay the truth he was terrified she might learn.

“Please?”

The hopeful quirk of her brow slowed his racing heart, and her small smile eased him back into his seat. Maker’s breath, but she had a way of calming his nerves, easing his anxiety. No dose of lyrium sated him the way her presence did.

“There’s a good sport,” Amallia chimed with a smirk. “Another order of drinks? Get to know each other?”

“Oh, that sounds wonderful,” Leliana agreed. Josephine and Cassandra drained the rest of their mugs and handed them over to the serving girl as she returned for another order.

His own mug stood full but for a few sips, and he stared into its golden depths as he searched for a topic of discussion, something relatable. When nothing came to mind and another tankard plunked to the table before him, he drank, draining his first in a long, slow pull.

“Well done,” Amallia saluted as she lifted her mug. “To new friends?”

“To a new adventure,” Leliana added.

“To new opportunities,” Josephine declared.

Several sardonic responses came to mind, but he discarded them without a second thought. Whether it was the company, the ale, or both, Cullen hefted his fresh tankard and spoke.

“To new love.”

* * *

At the war room door, Amallia paused, her hand frozen on the latch.  _There_ , she heard it again, the distant, muted sound of a poor soul retching. But from where did it come?

Stepping back into the main hall of the chantry, she listened, straining for a hint of direction. Several seconds passed before she heard more, the distinct sound of vomiting emanating from the room in the west wing. Nearing the door, a familiar voice groaned in abject pain.

Knocking with a gentle touch, she spoke. “Cul–Commander? Are you alright?”

A muttered curse preceded his reply. “I’m… I will be fine, Herald—” he started, but another forceful heaving interrupted him, the metallic clang of a bucket on stone punctuating his misery.

Against her better judgment, Amallia scanned the chantry to find it empty before opening the door and darting into the small room. Three beds crowded the space, two lying empty and neatly made. In the far corner, a covered lump shifted, Cullen’s sunken eyes and unkempt hair peaking over his shoulder.

“Herald, please,” he begged. “I just need to sleep.”

Tentative steps edged her to the side of his bed where she sat, careful not to disturb him. “I can help,” she muttered, “I want to help. If you’ll let me.”

With the linens tucked beneath his chin, Cullen curled into himself. It was then she wondered what kept him away from everyone around them, what caused him to retreat into himself so often. Completely unlike his past behavior she'd witnessed, he’d conversed with herself and the three other women well into the previous night, not an awkward moment shared the entire evening.  But that had been accomplished with copious amounts of ale.

At least she could cure her own hangover. And it appeared Leliana and Josephine had found their own remedies. Cassandra appeared fine, too, training in the yard near the soldiers’ tents as she had passed earlier that morning. But when Amallia had found Cullen’s usual post void of his presence, she assumed him to be at the war table, awaiting her arrival.

Another convulsion wracked his body, teeth gritting and eyes screwed shut against the pain. When the wave of nausea passed, she laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, thumb rasping over the linens. Much to her surprise, his hand enveloped hers, peaking out of the sheets to grasp tight. Reeling in the sudden sensation, Amallia remained silent, thought abandoning her in a wisp of smoke.

“What can you do?”

Unprepared, she stuttered. “The nausea. I can stop that. And the spinning room. You’ll fall sleep at least.”

Jaw clenched and narrowed eyes set, he nodded, agreeing. She adjusted her seat, turning to face him. “You’ll feel a slight chill at first, but that will pass. Other than that, please try to relax.”

Cullen nodded again. “Do it.”

Her fingers reached for him, but in the last inch, Amallia froze for a second that stretched an eternity. She knew nothing about the man that lay before her, but the thought of touching him, the proximity, the inherent intimacy of her fingers in his hair struck her like a bolt of lightning.

But he needed help. And she possessed the means. How immature of her to balk at such standard healing procedure? She was a grown woman, not a blushing young maid.

_Except he blushes every time he sees you._

With an irritated scoff, she shoved her warring feelings aside as she cupped his temple. A slow trickle of her magic seeped into him, searching, feeling. Through his presence she wandered, discovering different hurts and hungers at each turn. Nothing concrete, it was not as if she could read minds. But simple desires, like water or food or…

 _Touch_?

Ignoring the sting in her cheeks, Amallia continued working, searching until she stumbled across the cause of his hangover. With a mix of frost and spirit, she soothed his pains, then warmed him with a spot of fire to ward off the icy magic.

_Andraste preserve me, but his hair is gorgeous._

Tensions oozed from his muscles as his breathing steady, deep and slow to cleanse his stressed body. His legs straightened as he rolled to his back and her hand slipped from him as he reached above his head. The sheet slid from his chin as he stretched, muscles pulled long and hard as he groaned his relief.

Though they were alone, the heat of embarrassment creeped along her neck as Amallia stared. Massive hands gave way to solid arms, heavy shoulders rolling away the lingering exhaustion. And as if to tease her, the sheet slipped another inch, uncovering his neck and shoulders such that she startled, eyes averting and heart thumping.

“I… I’ll leave you to sleep,” she stuttered as she stood.

His sudden grip at her wrist stopped her in her tracks, and for reasons unknown to her, the sensation conjured up an image so salacious in her mind, she whimpered in shock. Her free hand flew to her mouth though it was too late. He had heard it, and by the fierce blush across his nose and neck, she wondered if he, too, had imagined the same thing.

“Thank you, Herald,” he started as he rose to sit, and the sheet fell to his lap.

The urge to scream hit her first, followed by the need to escape, to tear her hand from his grasp and flee. And then the ache, the raw desire to touch him beset her better judgment.

Maker’s breath, what was wrong with her?

“You’re… you should sleep,” she whispered. “I’ll leave you be.”

“But... wait,” he stuttered as his fingers fell from her her wrist to rest in her palm. “I’m… I don’t… could you stay?”

 _Stay_.

Her ask from last night echoed with stark clarity.

Amallia eased back to the edge of the bed, her eyes wandering, consuming, drinking in what she could see of him. When the silence dragged, she fidgeted, unable to keep her eyes averted, on the floor, on her hands, anywhere  _but_  him, and so she chose a spot between her toes and stared at it.

“Hangover aside, I enjoyed our time together last night,” Cullen started, elbows propped on raised knees. “I owe you for convincing me to stay. I’m glad I know you a bit better.”

The flutter in her chest caught her breath, the constriction seizing her unaware. Did decorum allow for such attraction? And how had she determined her myriad sensations to be attraction, let alone question the propriety of pining for her superior officer, a Templar to boot?

 _Ex-Templar_.

His hand lingered in hers, gentle fingertips light as a feather against her skin. “Herald?”

“You can call me Amallia, you know,” she heard herself say, thought returning at last. “I’m not just  _the Herald_. And I enjoyed the evening as well.”

Amber eyes flashed alight with a hope so profound, her doubt, her confusion over what she felt vanished.

“I should do that more often,” he muttered. “Except without the hangover.”

She barked a laugh, obnoxious and open-mouthed at that. “I’ll teach you. It’s—”

The door to the room burst open, admitting Josephine and Leliana talking of Inquisition matters. Amallia flew from the bed in a flash, flailing in her haste to avoid an awkward sight. But awkward it was with Josephine and Leliana froze in the doorway, eyes wide and mouths gaping as they stared between she and Cullen.

And out of the corner of her eye, she caught the embarrassed smile on Cullen’s blushing face, though he made no effort to hide it or his half-naked body. Stomping from the room, she said nothing, eager to escape the looming whirlwind of inevitable rumors.

Oh, he owed her, alright.

Two-fold.


End file.
